


Bits of a Marvelous Universe

by Katie_P



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, Putting the Sci Back in Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8951833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katie_P/pseuds/Katie_P
Summary: This is a collection of bits and pieces from larger fics I'm working on, out for a test drive. Feedback is appreciated.I'm an engineer.  So as much as I enjoy the MCU, I find its forays beyond the limits of my suspension of disbelief terribly irksome.  It is my firm belief that a world of superheroes can exist within a universe governed by natural laws and that this world can be full of compelling, character-driven stories.  Therefore, I am attempting to put the Sci back into Sci-Fi.These bits and pieces are set in what I'm calling the “Earth Zero” universe, which for the moment is mostly in my head, but I hope will be steadily transformed into actual stories.  Earth Zero is mostly based on the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but draws from the Marvel comics a bit, along with some changes of my own that are necessary to make the planned overall story work.  (There's a plan!  It's evolving, but the main plot points are nailed down.)  I have also drawn from a number of other fictional sources such as TV shows.  Earth Zero is also firmly rooted in our own universe, so no magic, no aliens, no omni-disciplinary scientists beyond reasonable complimentary skills, and plenty of real or mostly real science and history.





	1. One-Liners and Zingers

**Author's Note:**

> You will find the occasional name-drop of a real historical figure, as well as mentions of real historical events. All effort has been made to keep such mentions as close to the generally accepted truth as possible. If you find any factual errors, please let me know.

~.^.~

  


“I don't know. Kids are always a gamble. Take Tony for instance. Howard and Maria did something right. I always thought that kid was one lab accident away from becoming a supervillain.”

{A/N: The “one lab accident away from being a supervillain” line comes from The Big Bang Theory.}

  


~.^.~

  


“Gamma rays, huh?” Steve looked at Bruce. “Never heard of those. Some of the Project Rebirth participants were exposed to what the doctors called 'Vita-rays,' but the treatments didn't seem to do much.”

Bruce sighed. “Not at the time, they didn't. Afterwards, though, uh, it turned out there were some long-term effects. Cancer, mostly.”

“So how do gamma rays stack up against vita-rays?” Steve asked.

“As best we can determine," Bruce replied, "the radiation the doctors called vita-rays fell somewhere in the x-ray to gamma ray range of the electromagnetic spectrum. That's ionizing radiation. Very dangerous. In small, targeted doses it can be useful, but mostly it'll kill you.”

Steve turned the answer over in his head for a moment before following up with, “Any other rays I should be avoiding?”

“The only thing worse than gamma rays are cosmic rays," Bruce answered. "You _really_ don't want to get hit by those.”

Steve nodded, “I'll keep that in mind.”

  


~.^.~

  


James Buchanan. George shook his head. James was a fine, strong name. As Winnie's maiden name, Buchanan was a perfectly acceptable middle name. String the two together? They hadn't even realized they'd named their son after a former and altogether forgettable President until it was too late to change it.

  


~.^.~

  


“Thor Odinson,” he rolled his eyes and put up a hand to stop the barrage of questions he could see forming on the lips of the rest of the people in the room. “Yes, that is my real name. I'm Norwegian, not from Asgard. No, I will not pick up the hammer. Yes, I know I look like Chris Hemsworth. No, I've never met him. Can we please get to work, now?”

  


~.^.~

  



	2. The Facts of (Modern) Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony gives Steve a few books and learns a few things about life in the first half of the 20th century.

“Here you go, Cap; got these for 'ya.” 

“Oof!” Steve looked down at the two books Tony had thrust into his lower abdomen. He read the titles out loud, “ _Grandpa Does Grandma: The ABCs of Senior Sex_ , by Phil Parker. And, _Naked at Our Age: Talking Out Loud About Senior Sex_ , by Joan Price.”

“You're welcome,” Tony replied, popping one of his mystery snacks into his mouth and chewing as he continued, “I know Dad and Aunt Peggy had 'The Talk' with you back in the day, but a lot's changed. Now that you're back out in the world you need to know these things. Read up and gear up before you catch any cooties.”

“Cooties?”

“Yeah. Hang on...” Tony grabbed Steve's arm, placed his snack bag in Steve's upturned palm, and used his now free index finger to trace out on the exposed forearm, “Circle, circle, dot, dot. Now you have a cootie shot.” Taking his snacks back from Steve, Tony continued, “There. One less thing to worry about.”

“Tony,” Steve shook his head, “my mother was a nurse. I knew about sex. It was the slang that confused me.” 

“Ah. I see. Dad must have left that part out. Goji berry?” He held the unmarked shiny bag out to Steve.

Steve waved off the proffered mystery food. “Well, thank you for the books. At least I can get my vocabulary up to date.” 

Steve left the room with the books tucked under his arm, chuckling at his fellow Avenger's misunderstanding of life in the first half of the 20th century.

“Oh, and Stark?” Steve poked his head back through the doorway. He waited until Tony took a sip from the water bottle he had grabbed. “Back in my day shots went into your rump, not your arm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, both of those books are real.


	3. Permanent Discoloration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce explains one aspect of the Hulk to Natasha, and it isn't what she expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm diverging from Marvel canon a bit here, so tell me what you think. There are a number of interesting and plausible scientific explanations for the Hulk transformation. This is part of the one I'm going with.

“Hey there, big guy.” Nat approached Bruce nervously. “Bruce?”

Bruce turned to look at Natasha as he continued to don the loose-fitting jogging suit.

“Bruce, why are you still green? The fight's over. They told me you went back to normal pretty quickly once the other guy went away.”

Bruce winced. “It's a little more complicated than that.”

Hearing him speak was reassuring – slightly. Nat looked closer at his dirt-streaked green face. “Is that makeup?”

“Yeah. Um, I'm actually... it's, ah, permanent. I'm always green.”

Nat slowly reached towards his face. Bruce recoiled. “Don't... don't touch me. It's contagious.”

Nat took a step back. “What is it?”

“Genetically modified herpes. Turns infected cells green. On the plus side, though, I can photosynthesize.”

Nat raised an eyebrow.

“It's not as useful as it sounds.”

“So, did you turn green before or after the other guy showed up?”

“It was part of the same incident, though it took a while for it to take hold and spread.”

“So you're completely green.”

“Every square millimeter of epidermis. Even my dandruff comes off green.”

“I thought you were a nuclear physicist. What were you doing with green super-herpes?”

“It wasn't mine. Poorly supervised graduate student in another lab. Last I heard, some biotech firm picked him up after he got expelled.”

“And you're always contagious?”

“It's herpes. Not the sort of thing I'd want to test. But all incidental evidence points to yes.”

“Ok. Good to know. Excuse me.” Nat suppressed an urge to squirm as she went in search of a shower.


	4. Corporate History - Stark Industries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen-year-old Tony Stark asks his father why Stark Industries makes weapons. Howard tells him a war story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tissue warning.

“Dad, we can make anything we want, right?”

“Of course, Tony. If you can imagine it, put it down on paper, and work out all the numbers, you can build it. If not today, then someday. What do you have in mind?”

“Nothing, just...if we can make anything we want...why do we make bombs?”

Howard sighed. He'd known Tony would ask this question someday; he didn't expect it to be so soon.

“Sit down, Anthony. This is not a pleasant story, but I think you are old enough to hear it.

“As you know, the U.S. did not enter the second world war until December 1941, thanks to many isolationists in the Capitol. However, there were a small but significant number of pragmatists in the government and in the military who knew our involvement was inevitable. They saw the writing on the wall well before the war officially started. They began preparing in the mid-1930's, initiating research and development projects and recruiting scientists and engineers to work on them. I was one of the engineers they recruited to the Strategic Scientific Reserve, an R&D unit run by the Army. 

“Back in the early days it was actually rather fun, collaborating with the best minds in the country on technologies that would come to define the century. We had our extracurricular activities, too. Learning to fly from Hughes. Safecracking with Feynman. Expeditions to far-flung corners of the world. Those were the good years. 

“I think... I think we tried to enjoy ourselves a bit too much, because we knew it wouldn't last. It didn't, of course. After Pearl Harbor everything changed. There was a new urgency to our work. Those were our boys on the front lines, counting on us for every advantage we could give them. And it was hard, sometimes, figuring out what they needed. We watched the newsreels. We read the reports. But there's no substitute for going and seeing for yourself. 

“In 1943, the SSR sent some of their men to observe and report from the front lines in Europe and the Pacific. I was sent to southern Europe, where I embedded with an infantry battalion. They were working their way up the Italian peninsula capturing territory from the Axis. The more land they took, the heavier resistance they faced. I was usually kept at the rear of the advancing front, but I was close enough to see what was happening, which was the point. Once a week I'd send a report with a list of proposals for new equipment and modifications to existing equipment back to headquarters. Some things we modified in the field if we had the parts and tools to do it. Others we had to wait for the factories back home to make for us. Even with the improvements, there was no changing the fact that war is a messy business, not just for the men fighting it, but for the civilians caught in its path. It got particularly messy in a small town called Fisciano. 

“The shelling started from both sides before we could see the town. As we worked our way closer, sometimes I wasn't sure which side's munitions were exploding around us, what with the rough terrain and terrible weather. To this day, I don't know which side hit the hospital. Maybe it was both. I don't know. All we knew was that it was half-collapsed and on fire by the time we reached it. Some of our men ran in to help evacuate the parts of the building that were still standing. Others started fighting the fire, shoveling dirt onto the flames until one shovelful landed on an unexploded shell, setting it off and bringing more of the building down nearly on top of them. 

“As the walls collapsed, for a moment I thought I saw one of our men running towards a broken window on the second floor. Then he was gone, under the rubble. The men who had been fighting the fire were running away. I called them back as I started trying to move rubble aside myself. I don't know how long we worked, but it was after dark when we found them. There was the soldier I'd seen in the window, his whole body curled protectively around a small child. They were both alive.

“We pulled them out of the rubble and took them back to the forward operating base at Salerno. The whole ride back, the soldier held the child against his bare chest with his coat on back-to-front to keep the boy warm. This led to a bit of a scene when we arrived back at base. The soldier refused to hand the boy over to the nurses, which was just as well because the child made it quite clear that he did not want to be removed. After some tense negotiations with the head nurse and the base commander, an agreement was reached wherein the soldier would be given on-base leave to care for the boy until the Red Cross could come and collect him.

“The nurses hovered for the first day, but the soldier proved to be a capable caretaker. I later learned he not only came from a big family with several younger siblings and cousins but also had a son about the same age as the boy he'd rescued. In the four days the boy spent on base, he became something of a mascot for the men. One of the translators determined the boy's name was Luigi, though most of the men called him “Lucky.”

“I didn't sleep for two days after Fisciano, and that week my report to headquarters was practically a novel, with a business plan thrown in for good measure. In the introduction to the report, I wrote, 'War is a messy business. There is no escaping that fact. It is therefore our responsibility to make it no more messy than necessary. While great advances have been made, most current explosive ordinance is still imprecise and indiscriminate. I propose to you a new generation of weaponry that is capable of finding its own way to a target, that is safer for our boys to handle, and that is less risky for civilians to mop up afterwards.'”

Howard paused to let his words sink in.

“Anthony, I chose to make bombs because I believed that better bombs would make war less terrible. I still believe that. And that's why I refuse to sell those bombs to over two-thirds of the countries on this planet. Bombs are tools. All weapons are tools. It is up to those who wield them to decide how they will be used. The best we can do is choose wisely when selecting the leaders who will be making those decisions, if we have a say. Else the best we can do is attempt to prevent those leaders from acquiring the weapons at all. 

“Anthony, I don't expect you to understand right now, but I hope you will someday. I know you will have more questions, and I will answer them, but let's leave this here for now. Why don't you go find your mother? I'll send Jarvis down with some hot cocoa.”

Tony nodded and left his father's office.

Howard pressed a button on his desk. “Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Two hot chocolates, please. For Tony and Maria.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Jarvis.”

Howard leaned back in his chair as memories of the war rushed past him. He began sorting those memories into two categories: memories to share with Tony, and memories to keep to himself. As he sorted, he noticed a small pile of memories accumulating in the space between his two categories. He frowned. This was a problem he couldn't solve on his own. He picked up the telephone receiver on his desk and dialed.

“Hello, Margie? It's Howard. Is Peggy there?”

“One moment, Mr. Stark.”

A new voice came on the line, “Carter.”

“Peg, Howard here. How are things up at S.H.I.E.L.D.?

“Oh, busy as always. We have our hands full bringing the new computer system online.”

“Good, good. Anything I can do to help?”

“Actually, there is. Keep your son OUT of it. He gets plenty of ideas on his own, and now Hollywood's gone and added a few more, for sure.”

“He won't do it again; I promise. You know how Tony is. He has plenty of other projects to keep him occupied.”

“Well, he better not.”

“Speaking of Tony,” Howard paused, thinking over his phrasing, “he's getting to the age where he's starting to ask difficult questions.”

“Stop right there, Howard. You leave me out of this. I don't know what I could possibly contribute to that conversation that you and Maria cannot. It was embarrassing enough with Steve.”

“Ah, yes. 'Fondue-ing',” Howard laughed. “I swear he must have been blushing down to his navel after that conversation if his face was anything to go by!”

“Down to his toes!” Peggy laughed. “I blame Barnes – for filling his head with ridiculous notions about sex, women, and so many other things!”

“James was a good man,” Howard replied with a little more force than he'd intended.

“I'm sorry, Howard. I know how fond you were of him.”

Howard took a deep breath. “I told Tony about Fisciano today.”

“Oh. What prompted it?”

“He asked me why Stark Industries is primarily a weapons manufacturer.”

“How much did you tell him?”

“What happened that day, as I experienced it.”

“He's going to have questions.”

“I know. How much do I tell him?”

Peggy paused. 

Howard waited.

“Give him only the information he asks for. Don't lie; but obfuscate if you deem it necessary.”

“Peggy, should he know?”

“When he's old enough to keep secrets. I don't know why, but I have a feeling it will be important someday.”

“Thank you.”

“Any time.”

“Good luck with the computers!”

“Thank you.” 

“You're, uh, you're not bringing _him_ , along, are you?”

“NO. Absolutely not.”

“Good call. I hope.”

“Howard, is there something I should know?”

“If there is, I don't know it. Just...” Howard paused, gathering his thoughts. “Just don't retire him permanently. Not yet, at least.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. But I have a feeling it will be important someday.”

“Goodbye, Howard.”

“Bye, Peggy.”

Howard set the receiver back in its cradle. He reached over and pressed a button on his desk. “Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I am in need of a stiff drink.”

“What would you like, sir?”

“Alcohol.”

“Yes, sir.”  


~.^.~

  
“Dad?”

“Yes, Tony?”

“The boy from the hospital. Lucky. What happened to him?”

“I don't know, son. The war left tens of thousands of children orphaned. This boy was one of many. The Red Cross and other humanitarian aid groups took care of children like Lucky during the war. Afterwards, some were reunited with their relatives, some were adopted, and others grew up in orphanages.”

“Could we find him?”

“I don't think so, Tony. It's been over 30 years. I wouldn't know where to start looking, and any records are probably long gone by now.”

“Oh. Ok.”  


~.^.~

  
“Dad?”

“Yes, Tony?”

“The soldier who saved Lucky. Do you know what happened to him?”

Howard looked at his son with a downcast expression.

“He died, didn't he?”

“Yes, he died.”

“Why? Why did he die?”

“It was a war, Anthony. That's what happens in war.”

“But why him?”

“Because...” Howard's voice wavered, and he paused to collect himself. “Because old men send young men to fight in wars started by other men who think they're better than everyone else and having more land will fix the economy they broke fighting the last war which was supposed to be the war to end all wars, but it wasn't and so it goes and more men die. And maybe one day the wars will end, and instead of bombs I'll make bricks and beams for baby hospitals, but that's not the world we live in, Anthony. That's not the world we live in.”

Tony was silent, mulling over what his father had just said. He wanted to ask another question, but wasn't sure if he should. Finally, he asked, “What was his name?”

“That's enough questions.”

“But, Dad...”

“Tony, go find your mother.”

“But you said...”

“Anthony. Go.”

“Yes, Dad.”  


~.^.~

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howard Hughes and Richard Feynman were real historical figures who worked on government projects in the 1930's and 40's. Feynman's “safecracking” was essentially exploiting the laziness of his superiors, who would leave safes locked only by the last digit in the combination, making them rather easy to open. The fictional character of Howard Stark bears many similarities to the real-life Howard Hughes.
> 
> Fisciano is a real town outside Salerno in Italy. However, this account of its invasion and the accidental shelling of its hospital during WWII is entirely fictional.


	5. Star Wars Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil Coulson has been thinking, and uses Star Wars to frame his concerns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Elizabeth Miller (or as Tony calls her, Aunt Lizzie) is an original character. She'll show up from time to time. She's not supposed to be a Mary Sue character, so please tell me if she starts seeming Sue-ish.

“What's on your mind?” Fury asked.

“Star Wars,” Coulson replied, “Jedi recruitment practices, to be specific.”

“Oh?”

“They took children. Infants. Toddlers. The Jedi made sure their recruits would not know, wouldn't remember any other life.”

“You're thinking about Agent Romanoff.” 

“Would we have done that? Have we?”

“Have we done what, Coulson?”

“Taken a child and turned it into a weapon.”

Fury was silent, eyeing Coulson warily. “Where's this coming from?”

“The candidate blood donor list. Some of the names seemed familiar. It took me a bit to place them, but I did. They were all surnames of Project Rebirth participants. I thought that was a curious coincidence, so I asked Dr. Miller about it.”

“And what did she say?”

“Something about certain biochemical compounds and the underlying biological mechanisms being more common in a certain segment of the population. It has to do with an emerging field called epigenetics. Scientists have been studying the effect of an individual's environment and physical stressors on their gene expression, changing which genes are turned on or off, amped up or muted. The latest research suggests that some of these changes can be passed to offspring.”

“Bottom line?”

“Dr. Miller's research,” Coulson continued, choosing his words carefully, “suggests that descendants of Project Rebirth participants, compared to the general population, have about 350 times the chance of exhibiting extraordinary athletic abilities. That isn't to say that every descendant will show such abilities, just that such capabilities are more likely to occur in this population.”

“Hmm,” Fury replied. “Interesting observation. First I've heard of it. Recent discovery?”

“No,” Coulson replied, “It isn't. She made the connection in 1972, then buried it, afraid of what the military might do if they had that information.” Coulson studied Fury's face carefully, but all he could see was the usual calm mask.

Fury shook his head, “Two, possibly three generations of potential super soldiers that we missed out on, because no one else thought to check up on them.”

A knot formed in Coulson's stomach. “If you had known, sir,” he replied cautiously, “would you have recruited them at 18 years, or at 18 months?”

Fury did not respond. After a few minutes of strained silence, Coulson walked away, leaving Fury to wrestle with that question on his own.


	6. Best Friends Since Childhood...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The line "best friends since childhood" that usually characterized the relationship between Captain America and Bucky Barnes in history books and museum exhibits was almost, but not quite, completely wrong. The truth was far more complicated.

Richard Barnes was worried. He was always worried about something, and had a full head of gray hair to show for it. At least he still had his hair, his wife Flo would remind him, unlike Julius Nelson who seemed to lose his overnight after that terrible Tuesday almost two years ago. He counted his blessings: the Five-and-Dime was scraping by; his family had a secure roof over their heads upstairs; there was enough food to go around; his children and grandchildren were all healthy and strong. Yes, he nodded to himself as he looked around his busy store, he had a lot to be thankful for.

Stepping off the boat into the Castle Island Immigration Depot in Lower Manhattan in 1883 with little more than the clothes on his back had been the most terrifying moment of his life. Were it not for his younger brother Samuel pulling him forwards, he might have stayed on the boat and stowed away for the return trip to England. Sam, he knew, remembers that moment a bit differently: for him, it was the most exciting moment of his life. Soon enough, they were inspected and processed through and sent on their way. They had no family or friends waiting for them, no one to tell them where to go or what to do in this new, foreign, gigantic city filled with so many people, so different from the English countryside where they grew up the sons of a groundsman and a housemaid in the shadow of a stately manor. New York City reminded him of the beehives their father taught them to tend: buzzing noisily, inhabitants hard at work doing whatever it is they do, content to leave them alone so long as they do not give the bees reason to sting.

It was Samuel, only 15 years old, who led them through the city, got them jobs as day laborers setting stones or raising walls. It was Sam who led them to Brooklyn. As the elder brother, he thought it should have been him in charge, taking care of Sam. Instead, it was the other way 'round. Sam had a gift for talking to people. Give him five minutes and he'd make a new friend. Richard had no idea how his brother did it. It seemed all Sam had to do was give a crooked grin, showing off his mouthful of perfectly straight, white teeth, blink his sparkling blue-gray eyes, and tuck a strand of shiny, dark brown hair behind his ear. Richard tried to imitate him, but it didn't work as well – at all, really – with crooked teeth and a pockmarked face, even if they had the same eyes.

They settled in Brooklyn, working odd jobs as they got to know their new surroundings. Soon enough, they'd found permanent work: him as a shopkeeper's assistant, Sam at the docks as a longshoreman. He quickly discovered that a shopkeeper's life suited him quite well. There was a quiet orderliness to it, a steady rhythm and predictability. He even came to like the bustling city beyond the shop, its patterns beneath the apparent chaos emerging if you watched long enough.

Sam, however, missed the land. Blue water was no substitute for rolling green hills, and the water at the docks was never particularly blue, anyways. After three years, Sam had saved enough to start making his way westward as an itinerant farmhand, trying out various places until he found the right one. The right one turned out to be Shelbyville, Indiana. There, the groundskeeper's son became a landowner himself. 

The years were good to them both: successful marriages; strong, healthy children. He opened his own shop. Sam's farm prospered. Their children married and had children of their own. He had a thriving family business, with his sons Charles and Peter preparing to continue what he had started. His daughters Dorothy and Edith had found and married their own shopkeepers. A well-trained woman was an invaluable asset, and he was glad to see his sons-in-law reaping the benefits of his and Flo's hard work. 

Most of Sam's children left the farm to make their own ways in the world as they came of age. Only his oldest, George, stayed. George loved the land as much as his father did, and the land gave him much in return. He'd grown like a tree into a giant of a man, as if nourished by the soil and sunlight directly. His children, likewise, were tall and strong, well-suited to farm life.

Richard surveyed his store from his place behind the counter. The afternoon rush was dying down, and as the store quieted he could once again hear the steady cadence of ratchet-click-ping and the creaks and jangles of that wind-powered thing coming from the back alley. It probably hadn't stopped all afternoon.

The source of part of the noise was a Daisy Model H Repeater Lever Action Air Rifle. It had been a gift from Sam to his first grandchild on the boy's eighth birthday. He'd arrange to get it through Richard to be sure it would stay a surprise. For a personal touch, Richard had gotten the boy's name carved into the butt stock of the rifle before he sent it to Indiana. Now, the rifle was back in Brooklyn, along with Samuel and Elizabeth, George and Winifred, and the children. Everything had been going well, until it wasn't. Soon after, it went from bad to worse when the bank unexpectedly folded, leaving the family with land but no money. They made do for a little over a year, but with the rest of the country in a similar state, this temporary setback was starting to look more and more permanent. 

When they had first arrived in America, Richard had been overwhelmed, so Sam took charge, taking care of both of them until Richard could find his bearings and get his feet under him. Now Sam had lost almost everything. It was Richard's turn to take care of him.

It was a tight squeeze, having all of them in the flat above the store, but they were managing. George had found work at the docks, and Sam was happy to mind the children while Betty and Winnie worked part-time as cooks at the neighborhood school. The girls were adjusting to city life. Bucky was not.

Thirteen was a difficult age. His own thirteenth year was a hazy memory, but those of his children and older grandchildren were crystal clear; most recently Paul, who had reached his fourteenth birthday last winter much to everyone's relief. Rudy was still a few years away. And then there was Bucky.

The last few years had been rough for the entire family. Of all of them, Bucky seemed to be the most deeply affected. Understandably so, given what had happened. Sam's letters over the years had painted a picture of a happy, outgoing, energetic, and occasionally mischievous child. The child who arrived in Brooklyn four months ago was none of those things. He was withdrawn, sullen, humorless, wary, occasionally angry and defiant, and, unless addressed directly and sometimes even then, completely silent. So Richard was worried. They all were.

The problem was no one knew what to do. They'd all tried, but to no avail. All Bucky seemed to want to do was shoot at tin cans in the alley behind the shop. The regular cadence of ratchet-click-ping rapidly became a familiar part of the city noises surrounding them. Richard thought they were making progress when Bucky let his cousins show him around the neighborhood. After a few days, Bucky was venturing out on his own. Then he started bringing things back, all of it junk: tin cans, bits of string, metal rods, a few links of chain. It was when the two bent bicycle rims appeared on top of the growing pile behind the store that George realized what Bucky was doing, and explained it to Richard and the others.

George was right. Bucky's pile of scraps was soon transformed into a moving shooting gallery that spanned the width of the alley, tin cans dangling from a rope strung between the two pulleys, one of which was turned by a small windmill that caught the near-constant breeze. For a few minutes, they could hear him celebrating his new creation. Then he went back to silence, save for the ratchet-click-ping, now accompanied by the jangles and creaks of the target practice machine.

A new noise broke through Richard's contemplations, familiar for an entirely different reason. He looked to the big display window at the front of the shop, and sure enough, there was a scuffle outside. “Jethro!” he called to his oldest grandson, “Out front!”

Jethro appeared in the door to the stock room, and with a quick, “Shit, not again!” was running out the front door.

A minute and some yelling later, Jethro was walking back through the store, a skinny, blonde boy slung over his shoulder. The boy was squirming and pounding his fists into Jethro's back.

“Jethro!” the boy was screaming, “Put me down! 'M not finished with 'em yet!”

Jethro ignored him and started up the stairs.

Richard put his face in his hands. That was Sarah Rogers' boy, all right. All gangly limbs and Irish temper and no supervision. He felt sorry for the boy. It couldn't be easy, growing up alone like that. He felt more sorry for the boy's mother. She was a war widow, no family this side of the Atlantic, trying to raise Steve all on her own. She worked hard, down at the TB ward in the county hospital. Most of the other parents wouldn't let their children play with Steve, afraid he might bring tuberculosis into their homes. He understood their fears, but while Steve was small and frail and frequently sick, he'd been hauled upstairs to be patched up often enough and no one had caught anything yet. What the poor kid needed was a friend.

A thought struck him. Maybe, just maybe, it might work.

“Charlie,” he called to his son, who was straightening shelves near the back of the store, “watch the till for a few.”

“Everything all right?” Charlie asked. He'd ignored the commotion earlier; maybe he should have been paying more attention.

“No,” Richard replied as he headed for the back door, “but I think I might know how to make it a bit better.”

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Richard called out as he stepped into the alley. 

The regular cadence of ratchet-click-ping stopped, though the creaks and jangles of the contraption that was the focal point of the shooting continued, fed by the near-constant breeze through the alley.

He looked around, trying to spot his recalcitrant grand-nephew. “Bucky?” he called.

A mop of dark brown hair popped up from behind a pile of crates outside Nelson's Hardware Store, two shops down.

Richard made the universal 'come here' gesture.

Bucky pulled a face but grudgingly complied, making a show of dragging his feet.

“I'm impressed,” Richard said as Bucky drew closer, “last week you were next door on Mrs. Fitsimmons' fire escape.”

Bucky shrugged, the rifle bobbing up and down on his shoulder, “The wind was better today. No cross breeze.”

Richard sat down on an overturned barrel next to the door and pointed to the stacked crates next to it.

Bucky crossed his arms over the rifle and remained standing.

Richard looked away from Bucky and over to the set of moving shooting targets Bucky had constructed. “That's good work, there.”

Bucky frowned and kicked a rock near his toes. “The original was better.”

“I'll bet it was,” Richard replied with a sad smile, “but this one isn't half bad. You made it work using what you could find. Resourcefulness is a good skill to have.”

Bucky continued to look at his feet, his jaw set in a sullen line.

“Problem-solving. That's another good skill to have. Always in demand, no matter the state of the economy. You like solving problems, don't you, Bucky?” Met with silence, Richard nodded to himself, “I know you do. I could hear you hootin' and hollerin' when that thing started movin' on its own. Heck, the whole block could hear you.”

The corner of Bucky's mouth twitched upwards for a moment before he forced it back into a frown.

“You see,” Richard continued, “I have a problem, and I was hoping you could help me solve it.”

“What kind of problem?” Bucky mumbled.

“Well, there's this boy,” Richard began, hastily adding, “ _not you_ ,” as Bucky's eyes flashed up at him in a glare. “There's this boy in the neighborhood, about your age, who's kind of a trouble magnet. He says he doesn't start fights, but he sure knows how to get into them. Now, that would be none of my business, except sometimes these fights happen right out front. Aside from scaring away customers, I'm afraid one of these days he's going to come flying right through the front window, or worse, wind up dead on the doorstep. And that is my business, because it's bad for business.”

“What do you want me to do?” Bucky asked.

“I want you to keep him out of trouble,” Richard answered. “Or at least keep his trouble away from my store.”

“How?” Bucky replied.

“That's your problem to solve,” Richard replied with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder.

Bucky frowned. He didn't like this idea at all. “Why can't Paul and Rudy keep this punk out of trouble?”

Damn, Richard thought to himself, kid caught that angle fast. “Oh, I've asked, but they run in different circles. Always have. Kind of hard to impose a change like that.”

“But you'll impose it on me?” Bucky shot back defiantly.

“Watch your lip, young man,” Richard replied sternly.

Bucky looked back at the ground.

“I won't impose it on you,” Richard continued in a softer tone, “but I will request it.”

Bucky continued to stare at the ground silently.

Richard sighed, resigning himself to doing something he really did not want to do. “Bucky, remember how I told you problem-solving is a skill that is always in demand? Well, business is business. I have a problem that needs solving. You can solve it. How does 25 cents a week sound?”

Bucky eyed him suspiciously. This had to be a trick. “50 cents,” he replied, calling the bluff.

“30 cents,” Richard countered, completely serious.

“40 cents,” Bucky countered, realizing this wasn't a bluff.

“35 cents, final offer,” Richard held out his hand.

“Deal.” Bucky grabbed his great-uncle's hand and shook it firmly.

“I don't know if you heard the ruckus earlier, but Jethro hauled Steve in out of another fight about a half hour ago. He might still be upstairs getting patched up.”

“Who's Steve?” Bucky asked.

“That's the little troublemaker's name: Steve Rogers. Come on,” Richard stood up and headed for the door, “if he's still here I'll introduce you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there isn't much canon on Bucky's family history, and yes, a lot of immigrants changed their names to fit in. That being said, Barnes is an English surname, as in, from England. While I personally find the merging of Bucky's heritage and Sebastian Stan's heritage quite cute (and a bit disrespectful), I'm trying to keep things historically plausible for this somewhat alternate (and internally consistent) universe. I'm also trying to use as much of the (internally inconsistent) Marvel canon there is and extrapolating from that, hence Bucky is born in Shelbyville, Indiana in the comic books but somehow manages to wind up in Brooklyn young enough to be the childhood friend of Steve Rogers in the movies. Some of said extrapolations are borrowed from other fics, but the words are all my own, unless otherwise noted. (I will shamelessly steal lines of dialogue but then confess in the author's notes, from time to time.)


	7. The Tale of Phil Coulson (in the style of Douglas Adams)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil Coulson is amazing. That is all.

Phil Coulson was very good at his job. Any passer-by could tell from just a glance. Here was a man who was a master of his craft; highly skilled in his chosen line of work; supremely competent at his trade; an exemplar of his occupation; very, very good at his job. What a passer-by could not tell, however, was what Phil Coulson's job actually was. Most assumed him to be a middle manager of some sort, at a bank, or maybe a department store, or perhaps somewhere in the public sector, though when prodded could not quite tell you what the public sector was. No one passing Phil Coulson on the street would ever correctly guess his line of work, despite instinctively knowing he was good at it.

Phil Coulson's job was superhero wrangler. And he was very good at it.


	8. Girl Back Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Rogers gets cornered by Private Lorraine. He avoids the kiss, but makes things worse between him and Agent Carter than he would have if he'd just let Pvt. Lorraine kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell, I lifted the dialogue for most of the scene straight from Captain America: The First Avenger.

Steve walked down the corridor with more spring in his step than he'd had in months, despite having come directly from a well-wishing tour of the hospital. He knew it was inappropriate, but he couldn't help himself. He was in the war, doing real, important work, and hadn't been court martialed for his one-man rescue mission. Better yet, his self-imposed mission had succeeded: Bucky was alive, whole, and on the right side of the Allied lines. Now he was off to meet with the legendary Howard Stark himself. His brief first meeting on the way to the HYDRA facility hadn't afforded much time for an impression, but he had heard a lot of things about Stark: genius, brilliant, mad, bonkers, manic, crazy, showman, cad, rake, womanizer. However, one opinion stood out above the others, the opinion he valued most, and the opinion that reassured him most: “He's a good man.” 

Steve found himself at the end of a dead-end hallway with desks on either side and a shelf of files creating a semi-secluded space to one side. He thought he was in the right place, but perhaps not. He stopped at parade rest and addressed the woman seated at the desk behind the shelf. “I'm looking for Mr. Stark.”

The blonde WAC didn't look up from her newspaper as she answered “He's in with Colonel Phillips.”

Steve nodded and looked around for another cue as to what to do next, wondering whether to ask if he was in the right place. Her knowledge of Stark's whereabouts probably meant that he was nearby.

The WAC spared a glance at the source of the interruption, then a second to verify his identity. “Of course,” her tone dropped to a more seductive timbre as she realized who this particular soldier was, “you're welcome to wait.”

Steve awkwardly gestured to the desk opposite hers and moved to lean against the edge.

“I, ah, read about what you did,” she continued, putting down the newspaper and shifting her body to better show off her legs.

“Oh, the, yeah,” Steve nodded, slouching against the desk, “Well, that's, you know, ah, just doin' what needed to be done.”

“Sounded like more than that. You saved nearly 400 men.” She nodded towards the newspaper on the desk.

Steve smiled bashfully. 

The woman leveled her gaze at him, shifting her eyes to take in his entire body. 

Steve could feel her eyes on him. It felt wrong. Sometimes he felt like people only saw his body when he was wearing the stupid costume. Now he was in uniform, and it was still happening. This was somehow worse. He broke the lengthening silence with “Really, it's not a big deal.” 

“Tell that to their wives.” She stood and began walking towards him.

Steve crossed his arms across his chest as he began to recognize the intentions of the woman approaching him. “Ah, I don't think all of them were married.”

“You're a hero,” she countered.

“Well, that, now, depends on the definition of -”

“The women of America,” she interrupted, grabbing his tie, “they owe you their thanks.” She used his tie like a leash to pull him across the aisle and behind the shelf of files for a modicum of privacy as she whispered “And, um, seeing as they're not here...” she pulled his face closer to hers.

Steve tried to shrink back from her as much as he could without forcibly removing himself from her clutches. “No,” he squeaked, “I, uh, can't.”

The woman's grip on his tie loosened and she sagged back, looking disappointed. “Why not?”

“I, ah, promised. My, uh, my girl back, back home. When, uh, before I left.”

“Girl back home?” The blonde arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “What's her name?”

 _What's her name?_ The question bounced and echoed through Steve's head as his mind went blank. “Her name?” Steve repeated, trying to buy himself some time to kick his brain back into gear. He was never good at improvising. That was always... “B- Bu- Betty,” Steve stammered. “Betty,” he said again, more confidently. “High school, um, sweetheart.”

“I'm sure Betty wouldn't mind me stealing one little kiss,” her grip on Steve's tie tightened again.

“I think she would, ma'am,” Steve responded as he straightened his shoulders and drew himself up to his incredible, new full height. “She'd be quite cross with you. And even more cross with me for letting you.” A well-worn phrase drifted through Steve's mind. “He- er, uh, she's, ah quite insistent that no one ever, er, no one else ever lay a finger on me.”

“Captain!” A sharp voice rang out.

Steve jumped. He was simultaneously grateful for the rescue and embarrassed by his need for it. He turned to see the scowling face of Agent Carter.

“We're ready for you, if you're not otherwise occupied,” Peggy announced, then turned on her heel and marched off.

Steve pulled away from the blonde woman, turned, and jogged to catch up to Agent Carter.

“Agent Carter, wait,” he said as he reached her.

“Girl back home?” Peggy asked without missing a step. “Whatever happened to finding the right partner?”

“Peggy, that's not what you thought it was,” Steve replied as he tucked his tie back into his jacket. He mentally kicked himself. He should have just let the woman kiss him. Peggy might think less of him, but at least in her mind he'd still be unattached. Now Peggy thought he had a steady girl that he was actively trying to step out on. 

“I don't think anything, Captain. Not one thing,” Peggy replied, coolly. “Always wanted to be a soldier and now you are, just like all the rest.”

Steve felt a flare of irritation. She could judge him all she wanted, but she was no better, was she? Not only that, she was completely shameless about it. Steve was a long way from the streets of Brooklyn, but no amount of time, distance, or training would ever completely tame his Irish temper. “But what about you and Stark?” Steve slowed to a stop. “How do I know you two haven't been...” he paused, trying to remember the word Stark had used, “ _fonduing_?”

Peggy stopped and huffed a sigh of vexation, her shoulders rising and falling in an effort to keep her fists from clenching. She turned back to look at him. 

Steve stood his ground and met her eyes. He knew he was on the high ground now and wasn't about to back down.

Peggy resisted rolling her eyes as she turned away. She walked off as she said, “You still don't know a bloody thing about women.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Steve. He tries to weasel his way out of the kiss and still gets into trouble. His troubles with WACs are far from over, and the more he uses the “girl back home” lie, the deeper he digs himself. After all, the key to lying is to stick as close to the truth as possible, and the truth is, well, complicated. 
> 
> Also, many kudos to Ms. Dormer, Ms. Atwell, and Mr. Evans, especially Mr. Evans. All of the words surround the movie dialogue (blanking on the correct term, here) came straight from incessant rewatching of their performances.


	9. Soldier's Hair (or Why the Winter Soldier's Hair is That Long Because Clearly It Does Not Provide a Tactical Advantage and is Probably Far More Trouble Than It is Worth)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soldier liked when Sarah brushed his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sarah is one of Soldier's handlers/technicians. Soldier gave her this name. It is not her real name.

Sarah was brushing Soldier's hair. Soldier liked when Sarah brushed his hair. She did it better than the others. (The others were not allowed to brush his hair any more.) The others had brushed his hair with a funny brush that made noise. It also made his hair fall out. Soldier did not like having no hair.

Sarah told Soldier that he should have hair that he liked. When she said that the others rolled their eyes and shook their heads, so Sarah shouted at them. 

When she finished shouting, she asked Soldier if he liked his hair. Soldier put his hand on his head. He put his fingers on his forehead and pushed them backwards over his head and towards his neck. His head felt wrong. His fingers felt wrong. Soldier told Sarah that he did not like his hair. Sarah brushed his hair. The brush did not make noise. His hair did not fall out.

Sarah asked Soldier if he liked his hair every time she brushed it. Soldier did not like his hair for a long time. Soldier would push his hand over his head, and it would feel wrong, but not as wrong as the last time he checked. 

Soldier liked his hair now. Sarah still asked every time she brushed it. Sometimes Soldier would check and it would feel wrong again, but a different wrong than before. When Soldier had too much hair, Sarah would remove the excess with scissors. Then she would brush his hair. 

Soldier liked when Sarah brushed his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate feedback, so please, comment away!


	10. Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard Stark and Peggy Carter have a conversation shortly after Steve ditches the Valkyrie in the Arctic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story refers back to the story Howard told Tony about Fisciano in Chapter 4 and hints at why Howard refused to tell Tony the identity of the soldier who was buried under the rubble in the hospital.
> 
> I'm going massively AU, here, so let me know what you think. This divergence from canon is necessary to set up a bunch of later plot points, including why there are no new widely-recognized superheroes/supersoldiers until the mid-2000's, despite many, many attempts in the intervening years at making them.

The bottle was empty. It had been for the past half hour. Howard didn't notice. He kept drinking as if it were bottomless. He slid the back of his forearm over his face, only succeeding in redistributing the tears and mucus already covering it. He felt an odd pressure in his left shoulder and wondered if the grief was going to kill him, like the heart attack that took his father in the middle of his mother's funeral. The pressure eased and turned into a gentle tapping. He looked at his shoulder and realized it was coming from a hand that didn't belong to him. His eyes followed the arm attached to that hand up to a shoulder, over to a neck, and up to a red-faced and puffy-eyed Peggy Carter. He offered her his bottle. She shook her head gently. He took another sip.

“Both of them,” Howard choked back a sob. “Gone. We can't even bring their bodies back.”

Peggy pulled over a chair and sat beside him. “I shouldn't have let him go. Not after the last time.”

Howard shook his head. “It wasn't your call to make.”

“I know,” Peggy croaked.

“He chose. They both did. To do what was necessary in the face of almost certain death.”

“Barnes could have gone home after Azzano. Steve convinced him to stay. Maybe if he had been sent stateside, maybe... maybe...” Peggy trailed off.

“No,” Howard brought the bottle back up to his lips and tipped it backwards. “Steve tried to convince him to go home. James insisted on staying.”

“How do you know that?” Peggy asked between sniffles.

“I tried to talk him into going home, too.” Howard replied, pulling out a cigarette. “It wasn't entirely selfless.” He pulled out a match and tried to light it. “He was a good engineer.” The match broke. “Could've used him back in the States.” He held the match to the end of the cigarette for few seconds before waving it out and tossing it on the floor. “He'd already dodged death twice.” 

“Fisciano,” Peggy nodded in understanding.

“Fiscian – Oh God! What are we going to tell their children?!”

Peggy was suddenly very alert. “Their children?! Howard? What?! Steve doesn't have any children.”

“That's not exactly true...” Howard slurred, the bottle in danger of sliding from between his fingers.

Peggy snatched the bottle from Howard's hand. “Howard. Explain. Now.”

Howard reached for the bottle. Peggy rolled her eyes and handed it back to him. Howard took a great gulp, then leaned back in his chair, the bottle dropped haphazardly in his lap and the cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers.

“I didn't find out until later, but his near-death in the hospital gave James quite a scare. Well, that part I knew. The next part I didn't. Until later. The boy he rescued, Luigi, was about the same age as his own son, Jimmy. At Salerno, when the nurses came, the boy wouldn't let go of James. As far as the child was concerned, James was the only person he had in the entire world. James was still shell-shocked from being buried alive and had no intention of letting the boy go, either. It was clear that forcibly separating them would end badly: screaming child in one tent, catatonic soldier in another. So the higher-ups decided to let them be until the Red Cross could come and collect the child. 

“At some point over the next few days, before the Red Cross arrived, James decided to ask the base commander if he could send Lucky – that's what most of the men called the boy – to live with his family back home in Brooklyn. Of course the commander said no, but the idea stuck in James's head. He and his wife wanted a big family; they'd gotten started right away, before he was drafted. He was also afraid. Afraid of dying and leaving his son without any siblings. James grew up in a large, close-knit family. But his best friend grew up alone, the only son of a war-widowed mother. As much as James loved Steve, he did not want his son to end up like him.

“James knew he likely wouldn't survive the next push up the peninsula, so he wrote to his family to say goodbye and to make a final request. He wanted his son to have a sibling, and since he could not provide for one himself he asked his best friend, the best man at his wedding, to stand in for him...” Howard trailed off as he looked for his cigarette.

“Steve,” Peggy whispered.

“Yes,” Howard picked up the cigarette from the floor and put it in his mouth as he caught up to his train of thought. “It was all done quite clinically, as I understand. Nothing scandalous. As it happened the family, along with the rest of the neighborhood, was relocating around that time to make way for a new motorway. New neighbors. No gossip. Rather convenient timing, really. The whole family must be quite the progressive bunch to have agreed to it. His wife, especially...” Howard trailed off again.

“That's not the sort of secret most men would share with anyone. How did you find out?”

Howard fished the bottle out of his lap. He held it up to the lamp and rotated it side to side, observing the changing refractive patterns. He tilted the bottle upside down. It slipped through his fingers and made a dull 'thunk' when it landed on the floor.

“Photographs the family sent. He was looking at them in the lab. I thought he was working on a schematic, so I looked over his shoulder. I recognized the woman and the older child from other photos he'd shown me. The two infants? Well, I could do the math. That night, I took him out for a drink...or, ah, four drinks... and he told me the story I just told you.”

“Who else knows?” Peggy pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Only one left this side of the Atlantic is God, *erp* 'cept...” Howard hiccuped, “He might be a bit busy at the moment.”

“All right,” Peggy said, beginning to formulate a plan. “Get some rest. We have a lot of work to do.”

Peggy gingerly rose to her feet and headed back to her tent. “Oh Steve,” she thought, “watch over those children. We'll do our best, but we can't protect them from everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, sperm donation did exist in the 1940's.
> 
> I know, I know, this seems like a really, really contrived scenario that would probably never actually happen, but I do have some semi-rational reasons for why and how it might have come about despite all logic dictating otherwise:
> 
> Who is the person Bucky loves most in the entire world? For a long time it was Steve Rogers. Steve may have thought that Bucky's wife Alice replaced him in the #1 spot, but she didn't – he loved them both, but differently; it was never a contest. Who replaced Steve and Alice as #1? His son Jimmy. And Steve is totally on board with that, as is Alice. So it's only natural that Bucky can get a little irrational when it comes to Jimmy. The day Bucky got the draft notice was the worst day of his life, because it meant leaving his wife and son, possibly forever. And as he went through basic and specialized training, in the back of his mind the whole time was Steve: Steve whose father died in the Great War before he was even born, Steve who grew up alone, Steve who was constantly getting into fights, Steve who had run off to the Army and volunteered for some crazy experiment that had already almost killed him several times over, Steve whom he still loved but whose path in life he didn't want his own son to follow. So he knew what he needed to do: Jimmy needed a sibling. Alice agreed, and they had been trying every chance they had, up until the night before he was shipped off to Europe. After Fisciano, Bucky decided that his being in Europe shouldn't stop them from trying, and in a last attempt, knowing he'd likely die in the next push up the Italian peninsula, he sent a letter with a final request: make a sibling for Jimmy by any means necessary, even if he wasn't the father.


	11. Bucky's First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's first time was something he thought he'd never forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice Jean MacIver (later Alice Barnes) is an original character. She was writing fanfiction for Sherlock Holmes and The Hobbit, among others, and going to sci-fi cons starting in the 1930's. Bucky and Alice met in a math class at the City College of New York. They later ran into each other at a sci-fi con, became friends, fell in love, and eventually got married. Bucky loved her stories. She would send him short stories while he was away at boot camp and later in the war.

Bucky's first time was something he thought he'd never forget. He'd gotten The Talk from most of his older relatives years ago. He'd also gotten a version of The Talk from Mrs. Rogers around the same time (dear Lord was that conversation embarrassing). He bought rubbers from the chemist at the end of the block, and was sure his face couldn't get any redder by the time he left the shop clutching the paper bag tightly. This wasn't his first, first time, not really – he'd fooled around with Steve a bit when they were both younger and a lot more optimistic about society's views changing and about their own chances for a future together. Those hopes had long since been dashed and they had both moved on, each in his own way. 

This was Bucky's first time with a girl. The girl – woman, really – was his fiancée, Alice. Bucky loved Alice. She was smart, and witty, and clever. She wrote stories that carried him out of Brooklyn and to the streets of London, or to the Shire of Middle Earth, or to the Moon and to Mars and to the stars beyond. Bucky was ready to spend the rest of his life with Alice. There was a small part of him, though, that was afraid that he couldn't love her completely, afraid that he couldn't love her in all of the ways she deserved to be loved. This was a test, and Bucky was terrified of failing it.

He'd already tested himself on his own, with his hand and his imagination, and that had gone well enough. He had told Alice about his fear that he'd fail her on their wedding night. She had come up with the idea of this “test run.” Alice was quite confident that he'd rise to the occasion. She figured that if they were going to be married anyways, having a rehearsal for the wedding night a few months before the wedding wasn't such a big deal, especially if it would put Bucky's fears to rest. 

They rented a room at the St. George Hotel for the night; it was the only way they would be guaranteed their privacy. Alice signed the register while Bucky paid for the room. When he looked over after the clerk handed him the key, he saw that she'd signed it Mr. and Mrs. James and Alice Barnes. Bucky's eyes widened and Alice grabbed his hand, pulling him away from the desk before the clerk noticed his reaction. She whispered in his ear once they were in the elevator “I just couldn't resist,” and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. 

Once inside the room with the door locked, Bucky went over to the bed and flopped down on top of it, bouncing a few times as the mattress settled under his weight. Alice joined him with a flying leap, landing squarely on top of him. Bucky wrapped his arms around her as she scooted up his body so she could reach his mouth for a kiss. The contact and friction had the desired effect. Alice could feel Bucky hardening in his pants. She leaned in for another kiss before she sat up, straddling his waist, and started slowly unbuttoning his shirt. It was somewhat awkward and a little embarrassing for both of them, but the night was a success. It could only get better from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The St. George Hotel was a real hotel in Brooklyn Heights in the 1930's, located a few blocks from where Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes [canonically lived at the time](http://thingswithwings.dreamwidth.org/213805.html). This whole part of Brooklyn was very gay in the 1930's and 40's, and the St. George Hotel was known as a gay hookup spot. Bucky picked this hotel because it was local and didn't bat an eye at anyone who wanted a room for the night.


	12. Mistaken Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian Stan is an up-and-coming actor. There's no reason the FBI should be interested in him, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a crossover with the TV show “Bones” and set at the beginning of the show's Season 2, which makes it late September 2006. The year is important, as you will soon see. :-) Yes, this is part of the Earth Zero Universe. The MCU actors exist separate from their characters in the Earth Zero Universe. Yes, this is RPF. Don't like, don't read. 
> 
> Chapter Warnings for some intermittent swearing and brief chain-smoking.

Sebastian was having an awful day. No, an awful _week_. It started with a summons. From the FBI. Delivered to his apartment at ass-o'clock in the morning by an overly cheerful agent as he was headed out for his morning run. Which meant they knew his schedule. Which meant they were watching him. Great.

The first thing he did was call his mom, who told him to read the summons and call back at a more reasonable hour. So he read the summons. It didn't tell him much; just that he had to schedule an appointment with a Special Agent S. Booth in either D.C. or the NYC field office, and that he was allowed to bring a lawyer. Fuck. He needed a lawyer. He called his agent, and then he called his mom again. He didn't need an entertainment lawyer or an immigration lawyer, but they were a place to start. With some networking and some Googling, Sebastian found Bernie Rosenthal, criminal defense attorney.

As Sebastian hung up the phone after scheduling the meeting at the FBI field office, he wondered how his life had come to this. Two weeks earlier, he'd attended the premiere of his first big movie. Now, the FBI wanted to talk to him, and he had no idea why. 

Sebastian was up early and pacing around his bedroom the day of the interview, debating whether he should wear a suit or his usual daywear. Bernie had told him to wear something comfortable. Skinny jeans, low boots, a tee-shirt, and a leather jacket it was, then. Sebastian added more gel to his hair than usual and brushed his teeth a second time before he left the apartment. If he was going to wind up with a mug shot, at least he'd look good in it.

Sebastian bounced his foot and fiddled with his iPod as the train carried him towards Lower Manhattan. His fingers slid to his pocket out of nervous habit as the train rattled along. After the third time, he pulled out the box, thumbed it open and pulled out a cigarette. He had it lit halfway up the stairs of the Chambers Street Station. He was about to toss the butt away as he turned from Duane Street onto Broadway when he hesitated. This interview – he was _not_ going to call it an interrogation – might as well be an audition, except he didn't want any part of it. He made sure the remains of the cigarette were completely out before stowing the butt in his pocket. He sighed, reached into his other pocket, and pulled out another cigarette.

“Those things are going to kill you,” said a voice behind him as he looked up at the imposing Jacob K. Javits Federal Building. Sebastian turned around, dropping the cigarette and stamping it out as he did so. 

“Nice to meet you in person, Ms. Rosenthal,” he said and extended his hand.

“Please call me Bernie,” she replied, taking the offered hand in a quick, firm grip.

“What am I going to be in for today, Bernie?” Sebastian asked as they approached the security desk.

Visitor badges in hand, they headed for the elevators. “Do exactly what we discussed over the phone,” Bernie instructed. “Answer only what they ask you. Don't volunteer information. Don't answer any questions I tell you not to answer.”

“Got it,” Sebastian replied as they stepped off the elevator.

“The Feds talk a good game, but half the time they're fishing. Don't chum the waters for them,” she continued as they were led into a small room with a table and several chairs.

A mirror covered most of one wall. Sebastian had seen enough crime shows to know that it was probably an observation window. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was not on the set of _Law & Order_. This was real. Fuck. 

He took a seat next to Bernie and crossed one leg over the other, bouncing his foot to direct his nervous energy. Sebastian jumped as the door opened. He did a double-take as the FBI agent entered the room; he could've sworn that guy had been on _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_.

“I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth,” the agent introduced himself. “Thank you for coming in today, Mr. Stan.”

“Please, call me Sebastian,” Sebastian responded.

“And you are?” Booth continued, turning towards Bernie.

“Bernadette Rosenthal, attorney,” Bernie answered.

Booth sat down opposite Sebastian and Bernie and opened a file folder. “Sebastian, do you know why you're here?” Booth asked.

Sebastian's eyes shifted from Booth's face to his folder to his own hands before he answered, “No.”

“Does the name,” Booth looked down at his notes and read, “Nikolai Valerianovich Ilyushkin,” then trained his eyes back on Sebastian, “mean anything to you?”

“No,” Sebastian answered quicker this time.

“Where were you between July 6 and September 12 of this year?” Booth asked.

“Um,” Sebastian narrowed his eyes as he thought, “I was on the press junket for most of it, and I was here, in New York, for the rest.”

“Press junket? What's that?” Booth asked.

“Promotion for a new movie, where they send the actors and directors and producers around for interviews to drum up interest before it's released,” Sebastian answered.

“I see,” Booth replied. “Did your _press junket_ take you to Washington, D.C., by chance?”

“No,” Sebastian replied.

“And you didn't visit on your own during that time?” Booth continued.

“Agent Booth,” Bernie cut in, “Are you trying to establish my client's whereabouts over the past few months, or are you interested in a particular location?”

Booth gave Bernie a quick smirk before turning back to Sebastian. “Were you in Washington, D.C. between July 6 and September 12 of this year?” Booth asked.

“No,” Sebastian replied firmly.

“Are you sure about that?” Booth asked, leveling a piercing stare at Sebastian, “Because we have a witness who says you were.” Booth pulled a piece of paper out of his folder and laid it in front of Sebastian.

It was a pencil drawing of a face. His face. Sebastian pulled the picture closer with a shaking hand. He cataloged the features, looking for the smallest of differences. The hair was different, but that didn't mean anything; hair was easy to change. The jawline? Maybe there was a small difference. The cheekbones were more well-defined. But the chin and nose were definitely his. The picture could be him a decade from now. Sebastian opened and closed his mouth several times without any sound coming out.

Bernie leaned over to get a better look at the picture. “That's a good sketch,” she said, then leveled her strongest glare at Booth. “Too good. My client is a public figure, Agent Booth. And he has spent much of the past two months actively promoting his latest film, which is now in theaters. Your witness, and perhaps your sketch artist, may have _seen_ my client, but not at the scene of whatever homicide you're investigating.” Bernie's mouth curled into a grin. “Yes, I looked you up. What's all of this about?”

Booth regarded Bernie for a moment before answering. “On the morning of September 12, a Russian defector was shot dead while in FBI custody. Two witnesses gave independent, nearly identical descriptions of the sniper. Those descriptions match your client.”

“And hundreds of other young men,” Bernie interjected.

“Aaand,” Booth continued, “I have a warrant for a DNA sample.” Booth pulled another piece of paper out of his folder and handed it to Bernie.

Bernie read the document quickly. She bit her lip as she put together what Booth was really after. “This is a fishing expedition, Agent Booth,” Bernie said, exasperated. “It'll never hold up in court.”

“We'll see about that,” Booth replied as he made a hand gesture towards the mirror.

The door opened and a technician entered carrying a small tray. She set it on the table next to Sebastian and pulled on a pair of blue gloves. 

Sebastian turned to Bernie, “Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do,” Bernie answered, shooting a glare at Booth. “He's got a warrant.”

Sebastian turned back towards the technician, who was holding a sample tube and swab at the ready. He opened his mouth and grimaced as she scraped the inside of his cheek. As the technician capped, sealed, and labeled the tube, he ran his tongue over the spot she scraped.

“One more,” the technician said, taking a second swab and tube from the tray.

Sebastian glowered up at her as she scraped the inside of his other cheek.

“All done,” she said cheerily, sealing and labeling the second sample.

“Are we done, here?” Bernie asked.

“For now,” Booth answered.

“Are we free to go?” Bernie asked.

“You are free to go,” Booth replied.

Bernie stood and Sebastian followed suit. “Good day, Agent Booth,” Bernie said as she ushered Sebastian towards the door.

“What–” Sebastian began as soon as they were out of the room.

“Not here,” Bernie cut him off. She led them to a nearby Starbucks.

Ensconced in a quiet corner with their drinks, Sebastian finished his question, “What's going on?”

Bernie glanced around the room before fixing her eyes on Sebastian. “How much do you know about your family in Romania? Extended family, in particular.”

Sebastian took a swallow of his iced coffee before answering, “Not much.”

“Find out,” Bernie instructed. “You might need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a side-story from a WIP that's simmering on the back burner, so don't expect to see the parent story any time soon. I have another WIP that I need to finish first. This part decided to jump out pretty much fully formed, though it may get retooled a bit for the main story it came from. I figured that since I had it, I might was well share it. Let me know how you like it. :-)


	13. The Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a clandestine shopping trip during a mission, the Winter Soldier discovers part of his past and his favorite handler reveals more of the past they share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a mini-fic tangent to an incident that is briefly referenced in a current WIP. I had it written so I thought I'd share it. Let me know what you think. :-)
> 
> I'm using some names that make sense in their larger story context but might be confusing on their own, so, in order of appearance, here's a brief rundown of who's who:  
> Sasha = the Winter Soldier's current civilian code name  
> Sarah = OC Dr. Elizabeth Sarah (Barnes) Miller, aka the Winter Soldier's favorite handler, and also Bucky's daughter  
> Chris = Chris Beck from _The Martian_ , also Bucky's great-grandson  
> Sam and Ollie = OCs Samantha (Barnes) and Oliver Beck (Chris's parents)  
> new baby = Amy Beck, Chris Beck's sister from _The Martian_ (she's in the book but not in the movie)   
>  Henry = OC Henry Barnes, Bucky's older brother  
> Sarah's Mom = OC Alice (MacIver) Barnes, Bucky's wife  
> Jimmy = OC James Buchanan Barnes, Jr., Bucky's son and Sarah's older brother
> 
> I borrowed one story element from @darthstitch.

Las Vegas was quiet at ten in the morning, the perfect time for gift shopping. An electronic bell rang as Sarah and Sasha entered the toy store, their eyes instantly spotting the sensor and then cataloging the other cameras out of long habit. 

Sasha pulled his baseball cap lower over his eyes as he scanned the shelves. "What do little boys play with now?" he asked. 

"The same things they've always played with," Sarah answered. "Kids are simple. It's the adults who make things complicated."

Sasha snorted in reply. He stopped his browsing and frowned. "I think I had a rifle, a real one, when I was a kid." 

Sarah chuckled, "That was an air rifle, and Henry wouldn't let you touch it until you were eight. Chris is three. He needs something he can play with on his own without supervision when Sam and Ollie have their hands full with the new baby." 

Sasha nodded. He picked up a plastic block from a building set on display and examined it. His mechanical arm whirred and the brick cracked. He released the brick and dropped it on the floor. 

"Two-finger pinch still a problem?" Sarah asked quietly. 

Sasha nodded. 

"We'll recalibrate it when we get back to the hotel," she said, glancing surreptitiously towards the cash register at the front of the store and the bored clerk stationed there. She glanced back only to discover that Sasha was no longer there. She immediately looked up to eliminate the possibility that he had moved to higher ground, then surveyed her surroundings to determine his most likely position. 

Thankfully, he hadn't gone far this time. He was holding a stuffed bear with brown fur, a blue coat with red buttons, and a black domino mask. Sarah braced herself for the question she knew was coming. She didn't have to wait long. 

"I hated this bear. Why?" he asked. 

"Because the bear was a lie," she answered. "A lie, I think, that you desperately wanted to be true," she added, her voice wavering. 

Sasha frowned. "I don't understand." 

Sarah explained, "The bears, they were part of the war effort, dressed up in your fictional counterpart's costume from the comics. The character was supposed to appeal to kids, make them feel like they could make a real difference in the war effort. On the home front, of course; though a few underage boys who were caught enlisting did say they were inspired by the comics. There's still a debate over how many didn't get caught, and what effect the comics had on those numbers. I don't know who came up with the bear, but it caught on right away. With war rationing, the originals were pieced together out of the scraps that couldn't be used for much else. What's considered the classic bear today wasn't available until after the war ended. Aunt Peggy somehow managed to have one of the originals delivered to us before they officially went on sale. I think she was worried that Mom would be offended, especially if she came upon them by chance. Mom, uh, apparently thought it was hysterical, or maybe it was her reaction that was hysterical; the story changes. Anyways, Jimmy has the original bear. It got promoted a few times, well, it got drafted first, then promoted, so it's Master Sergeant Bucky Bear, now. Its mission was, and always will be, to look after little Barneses. And big Barneses, too. They don't stay little forever."

Finished with her explanation, Sarah waited for Sasha to respond. 

He stared at the bear silently. Then, he turned back to the wall of bears and selected two more. Small, medium, and large bears in hand, he asked, "Can they all be Sergeants?" 

"Of course," Sarah replied. "What are their assignments?" 

He held up the smallest bear. "Watch over the new baby." 

He held up the medium bear. "Keep big brother company."

He tugged the largest bear closer to his chest. "Remind me of - of who I was." 

Sarah nodded as she blinked back tears. 

They started towards the cash register. 

Halfway there, Sasha stopped. "No," he declared, "of who I _am_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! This started with a single mental image of a not-yet-fully-recovered Bucky/Sasha/Winter Soldier holding a Bucky Bear in a toy store and looking at in in confusion. It spiraled out into a short fic from there. Feedback is always greatly appreciated.


	14. A Mysterious Package

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't the first time Samantha and Oliver Beck had received a package with no return address.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a sequel of sorts to the previous chapter.

This wasn't the first time Samantha and Oliver Beck had received a package with no return address. The last one had been postmarked from Maryina Gorka in Belarus. This one was postmarked from Las Vegas. 

Oliver shook his head and chuckled to himself as he brought the package inside. He'd known that marrying into a family with as storied a history as the Barneses would come with some surprises. Though learning that WWII hero and family patriarch Bucky Barnes was alive, was being held as a prisoner of war by the Soviets, and had been coerced into working for them as an assassin wasn't quite what he had expected. 

Getting care packages from the aunt who'd gone to Russia to steal Bucky back only to discover that getting him back would take a lot longer than expected had been even more of a surprise. 

"What's that?" a small voice said as a pair of arms wrapped around Oliver's leg. 

"Great Grandpa and Aunt Lizzie sent us a package. Will you help me open it?" Oliver answered. 

"I'll help!" Chris said, his head nodding up and down like a bobble-head doll. 

"Let's find the scissors, then," Oliver said as he led Chris towards the kitchen. 

Kneeling on a kitchen chair, Chris watched his father cut through the packing tape that held the box closed. 

Oliver turned the box around so the front flap faced Chris. "All right, now you can open it." 

Chris pulled at the flap and the box opened. Inside were three brightly wrapped bundles, two in yellow, and one in blue. Each bundle had a note tied to it. Chris poked at one of the yellow packages while Oliver lifted the other one out of the box to read the tag. "This one says, 'To Baby Beck'," he read aloud. 

"Oh," Chris's face dropped. 

"But I'll bet..." Oliver trailed off as he reached for the blue package and quickly read the tag, "This one's for you." He handed the package to Chris.

"Can I open it now?" Chris asked excitedly. 

"Let's wait until your mom gets home," Oliver said. 

"Awww," Chris said. 

Oliver gave him a look. 

"Okay," he grumbled. Chris hopped off the the chair and stomped over to the family room where his solar system floor mat was littered with toys. He picked up a plastic boat and was soon chugging his way around Saturn's rings. 

As soon as the side door opened, Chris was racing towards it, talking a mile a minute. "Mommy Mommy Mommy we got a package and Daddy helped me open it and there's presents Mommy! Presents for me and the baby! Can I open my present Mommy? Daddy said I could open it when you came home and you're home now so can I open it? Please?!" 

Samantha looked at Oliver, who was at the kitchen counter preparing two mugs of tea. 

"Package from your grandfather," he translated. 

"Ah. Well, shall we see what he sent?" Samantha sat at the kitchen table where the package was still resting. 

Oliver brought over her mug of tea and sat beside her. "Chris, you can open it now," he called. 

The three-year-old made a beeline for the table and clambered onto a chair. 

"Be careful," Samantha warned as Chris grabbed the blue package. "There's usually a letter tucked inside, and you don't want to tear it." 

Chris slowed down his ripping of the blue paper slightly. As the paper gave way, the oblong shape unfolded into a stuffed bear holding a card between its paws. 

"Oh my God," Samantha said. 

"I thought there was a family rule about those," Oliver said. 

"There is, but, if he's the one sending it..." she trailed off as she blinked back tears. 

Chris hugged the bear to his chest and examined the card. "This says my name!" he exclaimed. "C-H-R-I-S-T-O-P-H-E-R. Christopher." 

"Let me help you open it," Oliver said. 

Chris handed over the card. 

Oliver opened the envelope, removed the card, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was written in English this time. 

"What's it say?" Samantha asked. 

Oliver handed the card back to Chris and leaned over his shoulder to read it aloud. "Dear Chris, Being a big brother is fun and exciting, but sometimes it's boring and lonely, too, just like the Army. I've assigned Sgt. Bucky Bear to be your companion. A sergeant's job is to keep things running smoothly, for both his commander and his men. I had a long talk with Sgt. Bucky Bear before he shipped off for his assignment, and he promised me he'd take very good care of you. I know you'll be a great big brother, and Sgt. Bucky Bear will always be there to help you. Love,..." Oliver gasped and handed the card to Samantha. 

"What?" she asked as she scanned the card. "Oh," she breathed as she saw it. 

The name 'Sasha' was crossed out, and next to it was written 'Bucky.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! After I wrote the short story in the previous chapter, this part sort of wrote itself. :-) Feedback is always greatly appreciated.


End file.
